If you begin to ride the wave of superstition
calling upon a quick third and joining
reflections in harried resolve—suffer yourself
the monotonous day, and you will see.
Glances upon firey ears, disjointed rungs
on ladder registers to add and subtract
mad gay commerce resting underhand—your checker
will play the laser for you, a fugue in black and white.
Turn round wheels of forgotten corner
stores of brisk white milk and shards of chunk salt
to litter the living ground. Toss spackled seed
the birds come for clean-up.
Do not mind the exaggerate, the clumsy daring sly, the mystic fount, the clappercaw
Sleep without the glass house, pumpkin pie staging ground and augur birds.
Mettle with the metal, the silver, the brass bed knobs and the golden ones.
You are part of it all, and nothing, waiting for an end to look back upon
You are hindsight to forget today
should you shrug and
forge your tomorrow in sand.